seven stages
by formytroubledmind
Summary: In which Jean tries to remedy a broken heart


The streets smell like blood, the fluid from a thousand bodies mingling on the cobblestones. The gear they're given for the clean-up does little to ease the rising levels of nausea in Jean's gut–the masks barely filter the stench of rotting bodies, gloves do little to prevent him from feeling the cold seeping out of dead limbs as he hauls another fallen soldier wrapped in a makeshift shroud onto carts. Jean glances at Connie, and the smaller boy gives him a grimace, scrambling like a monkey amongst the piles of bodies, working to stack them in place in the wood cart.

It's already piled high; mankind's victory didn't come without losses.

Jean bites at his lip and shakes his head, already thinking of a hot bath and some food when he gets back to the barracks, but it's all wishful. Almost everyone's deployed in the massive clean-up operation, and being rookies, the 104th doesn't place so well in the hierarchy of things.

He hasn't seen Marco since they'd watched the Rogue Titan seal the breach, but he's sure the boy's somewhere, probably helping out in some other part of town. He graduated seventh, and probably could do better if he didn't hold back. Jean doesn't have to keep worrying about him.

Call him a coward, but not everyone can–or afford to be–a suicidal bastard, he thinks, hefting another corpse onto his back. The congealed blood makes its way down his shirt, seeping right into the threads. He shudders as the fluid makes contact with skin. He's no Captain Levi, but even so he finds the conditions horribly unsanitary. At this rate, there will be no one left to eat, if the plague gets to them first. At least he'll be out of here with Marco in the Military Police soon. Safe inside Sina.

The weather is warm, heat rolling off in waves from the pavement, pressing around thick sheets. Jean takes another shallow breath and almost wipes the sheen of sweat gathering on his brow, remembering the filthy gloves just in time. Je stares down at his hands, and makes a disgusted face behind the mask. Think of next week, he reminds himself. Marco. Sina.

His eyes drift to the side, scanning the rows of abandoned houses, almost identical to his childhood home–he can hardly call himself a child now, he scoffs, they'd lost more than baby fat over the past three years. Like the city he'd grew up in, he'd changed, not necessarily for the better. Trost stands mutilated, glass shattered and roofs collapsed in, blood staining the roof tops and rot filling the streets.

There's someone lying against one of the houses, dressed in a uniform. A soldier. Jean squints in the bright sunlight, trying to make out the features. So far, he's been lucky–all the people he'd dealt with were nameless corpses, and he'd felt nothing more than a twinge of sympathy as he'd closed their eyes and wrapped their limp bodies. He moves closer. the body has rotted; it's probably been here for the two days since Eren plugged the hole–

–he recognises the constellation of freckles, scattered over the remaining left cheek. the crop of black hair, neatly parted in the centre, the half set of perfect cheekbones. His eyes widen, and suddenly it seems all the oxygen in the world isn't enough to keep him from hyperventilating.

Shit.

Shit shit shit _shit_ this can't be happening. Breathe, he tells himself,_ breathe_. If he can just close his eyes and calm himself, if he can slow the erratic beating of his heart, stop the shaking of his hands, when he opens them hazel eyes will be meeting his own–

"Trainee, do you know his name?"

No, _shit_ no.

"But this couldn't have happened to him," Jean whispers to no one is particular. There is no one who will listen, now. He lets out a ragged, slow breath, and swallows thickly. He can feel his mouth drying up. If he vocalises it, it will be true. He can't crystalise this. He can't. It'll be true if he affirms it. But the name escapes his lips anyway, a whisper hovering in the humid air.

"Marco."

His vision spins dizzyingly. It feels that way too, like the world has crumbled under his feet, leaving a gaping cavern. And the funny thing is, he's the one who's whole. He steadies himself, and turns around.

"Did…did anyone see how he died?" he manages. He can't look at the boy–his boy–it's too real, too raw. And yet he's forcing himself to say it. The words are heavy and uncomfortable in his mouth, rolling around like marbles under this tongue. Foreign.

The woman in the grey uniform, the one who'd addressed him, ignores the question. Instead she presses: "What's his name? If you know, tell me now."

Jean turns to look at her, maintaining his silence. Her eyes are wide and unblinking, grey pupils focusing right on his face. It's impossible to gauge her expression.

"It's already been two days since the hole was sealed," she continues, voice flat. "And we still haven't finished collecting the bodies. At this rate, there could be an epidemic. We must avert a second tragedy."

"There's no time to mourn your friend yet. Understand?"

Jean breaks her gaze, watching as she taps her pen against the clipboard.

"104th trainee corps," he starts, voice wavering. "Captain of squad nineteen–"

_Say it, Jean._

"…Marco Bodt."

"Marco, then?" He's almost envious of the way the syllables roll easily over her tongue, easily said, easily forgotten.

"I'm glad we have a name. Let's get back to work." She marches off briskly.

Jean rips a glove off and spreads his hand open wide. His fingers fit together perfectly with Marco's cold ones as he laces their hands together. He scoops Marco up, and holds the broken boy so close, so close. If he tries hard enough he can almost pretend the pounding in his chest is them in sync, the beating heart so close to his own, like the cold nights when they'd abandoned the pretense that their bunks were two single beds. He buries his nose in the boy's hair, something he'd never been able to do unless on tiptoe, and drowns himself in Marco's scent, comforting and familiar.

He stands up slowly–even though Marco's body is light, too light–holding the him in his embrace, cradling him for the last time as he makes his way to the carts. He presses a final kiss to the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and it almost seems as if the tear dripped onto the freckled cheek is Marco's own.

"I love you." Jean says, and, for once, doesn't expect a reply.


End file.
